


Inhale, Exhale

by damerons (noblydonedonnanoble)



Category: Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29421210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/damerons
Summary: Llewyn doesn’t like Valentine’s Day, and he won’t tell you why.
Relationships: Llewyn Davis/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Inhale, Exhale

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Oscar fandom fic exchange over on tumblr

Llewyn doesn’t like Valentine’s Day, and he won’t tell you why.

Frankly, you should have realized sooner. It first came up around three months into your relationship, when he asked whether you’d seen a film, and you told him that you saw it on Valentine’s Day with an old boyfriend. He soured at once, but you explained it away—you probably shouldn’t have mentioned an ex on a date. What a bad, bad idea.

Then again, around seven months in. December began, winter was setting in in earnest, and you lamented the fact that the season made Manhattan feel so dreary. “At least we have Christmas and New Year’s to help keep up the cheer. And then obviously Valentine’s Day.”

Again—Llewyn tensed. This time, you assumed it was that he still felt a little strange about commitment. It had been a while since he had much of a serious relationship, you knew.

But January eases into February, and you flip over your kitchen calendar. Llewyn’s in the shower and you call out, “We should probably make a reservation soon.”

“For what, sweetheart?” His voice echoes around the walls of the bathroom and carries out to you. It’s warm and rich and _God_ do you love him.

“Valentine’s Day, babe. Most of the good places will be full before we know it.”

Silence. Long stretch of silence. You’d been in the middle of preparing your breakfast, but you find yourself standing still, straining to listen. As though maybe he’s just replying very, very quietly. (Absurd.)

“Can we talk about this when I get out?” he calls at last.

You hesitate. “Okay.”

What follows is the longest ten minutes of your life, during which Llewyn finishes up his shower. When he comes to join you in the kitchen, he’s clad only in pants; he pulls on an undershirt after sitting down across from you at the kitchen table. “You’ve hardly touched your breakfast,” he remarks, looking down at the food in front of you with concern.

“Not really hungry,” you murmur. How were you supposed to eat while wondering why the hell he doesn’t want to celebrate Valentine’s Day with you?

It seems to hit him, then, how his reaction has come off, because his eyes widen, and he grabs your hands from the tabletop and clutches them tight. “Shit, I’m sorry, babe. I promise it’s not about you, or anything to do with us. I’d take you out to a nice dinner and spoil you rotten any day of the week, I really would. Just…” His brow furrows, and he licks his lips as he hesitates over his next words. “I’m not really a fan of Valentine’s Day. What if we just had a quiet night in on the 14th? And then we could go out some other night.”

From his soft, cautious tone, you can tell that he knows his request might not thrill you. And, well, he’s _right_ ; you feel almost certain that there’s something he’s not saying, and it’s taking everything in you to not run through some rough possibilities…

Most of which end in – please God no – “break-up.”

But you pull yourself back from that whirlpool of dangerous speculation, and you swallow, and you nod. “Sure, babe. If you want a quiet night, I want that too.”

You tell yourself it’s not a lie, and to some degree, it’s not—but you want him to want a special night out as much as you do. You want him to tell you why he doesn’t.

Llewyn laces your fingers together, his eyes searching your face. There’s so much love and affection there—how could this be about doubting your relationship? Surely he wouldn’t look at you that way if he were thinking of ending things. “Pick the place, and I’ll make it happen. Just not on Valentine’s Day.”

So you pick a place, and he presses gentle kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, before getting up to finish his morning routine.

Neither of you mention the holiday for several days after that. You try not to even think about it, and for the most part, you manage, except for a gutting moment when your co-workers ask if you and Llewyn have any Valentine’s Day plans and you have to smile and light-heartedly say, “We decided to do a quiet night.”

A chorus of, “Oh.” Unable to conceal their surprise and disappointment. _Oh_ , they didn’t realize that… Llewyn was cheap? A bad boyfriend? That things had soured between you? No doubt several options run through their heads, although they’re gracious enough not to express any of them to you.

It hurts.

You try not to let it.

You go out for dinner the weekend before Valentine’s Day, and Llewyn is… beautiful, and tender, and warm. He takes you to a Broadway play afterward, and he can’t stop grumbling about the incidental music as you take the subway home.

It should feel perfect, and you tell yourself it does.

On the 14th, you wake up to Llewyn curled around you. He holds you tight, his fingers splayed across your stomach and his face buried in your hair. And when you try to get up, he pulls you close again. “Not yet,” he whispers. “Please.”

You close your eyes and lean into him, linking your fingers with his. He presses sporadic kisses to the crown of your head, and you feel so damn safe.

Finally, he lets you get up.

“Do you want the shower first?” you ask him.

“No, you go ahead. I’ll be up in a bit.”

He’s not. He’s dozing when you get out of the shower, and still after you’ve prepared and eaten your breakfast.

You hesitate in the doorway, looking over him, before crossing the room to sit on the bed. You trace your fingers through his hair, watching him blink slowly to look up at you. His eyes crinkle softly. “Are you feeling alright?” you whisper.

“Sure I am,” he whispers back. “Just tired.”

“Are you sure? Because I can call in a sick day if you wanted me to stay home and look after you.”

Llewyn scoffs, rolling his eyes at you. “Go to work. I’m getting up soon, I promise.”

You give him a slow nod. “Call me if you change your mind?”

“I won’t change my mind.” With a stern look from you, he sighs and grabs for your hand, pulling you down to kiss you gently. “But if I do, I’ll call you.”

So you nod, kiss him once more, and leave.

What is it that you’re missing, here? You puzzle over it on the subway, and then at work, thinking about how close he held you. How counter-intuitive his tenderness seemed when he’d balked at the idea of making anything romantic out of the holiday.

You clear out for lunch, and you’re about halfway to your favorite diner when you decide to redirect your course and rush down the nearest entrance to the train.

This is ridiculous. Llewyn doesn’t _do_ this—maybe he’s not always the most forthcoming person in the world, but you can’t remember another time when he’s been needlessly opaque. So you should be up-front about the fact that he’s both confused _and_ worried you. Because honestly, you still can’t shake the feeling that something was wrong this morning.

Your apartment is quiet when you ease the door open. You don’t go home for lunch often – too many meals-turned-quickies that made you get back to work late – but you’re used to the place being filled with music by now.

Either Llewyn, practicing in the living room, or playing records and whistling along while he does food prep.

Now, though, the silence is eerie.

“Llewyn?”

He doesn’t answer.

Check the living room—not there. Kitchen and bathroom—same.

It is very clear, from the moment you return to the doorway of your bedroom, that Llewyn hasn’t moved since you left. He’s lying on his stomach, cradling his pillow under his head with one arm while his other arm is outstretched.

Reaching out for where you should be.

“Baby,” you breathe. You retrace the same path that you made earlier, stepping into the room, settling on the edge of the bed. Your hand smooths over his head, and as you tenderly card through his curls, he begins to stir.

He makes a muffled _mmf_ noise into his pillow and scoots closer to you, pulls you closer—his outstretched hand finds your waist, holding you tight while his head settles against your thigh. “What’re you doin’ home?” Voice creaky from sleep.

“Needed to talk to you,” you tell him gently. Your fingers winding around his hair absent-mindedly. “I think it’s time we talk about Valentine’s Day, don’t you? Whatever’s got you like this.”

Llewyn doesn’t say anything for a long, long time. Maybe you’d have thought that he’d drifted off to sleep again, but his thumb is tracing circles over your hip.

“Mike died on Valentine’s Day, babe.”

 _Oh_.

Your stomach drops at his words, because shit, you should’ve _known_. Here you’d been overthinking his reticence to celebrate a stupid holiday and it hadn’t even _occurred_ to you…

“Five years ago,” he offers up, too. “I didn’t… Last year was better. Even the year before that was okay. I felt weird about doing something extravagant, but I didn’t expect to hurt so much today.”

“I don’t know if that’s how it works,” you whisper. “Doesn’t it just… come back sometimes?”

“Not like this.” And you know what he means—you’re both remembering nights when he got listless, threw on _If We Had Wings_ and poured you both a large drink. Hell, even the time you had to run up to Yonkers for the day to meet a client, and he decided to come with you… only to get a glimpse of the George Washington Bridge on the drive home.

He’d blanched and gone near-silent for the rest of the night.

Yes, the hurt comes back sometimes, but not like this. Not this bad.

Pressing a soft kiss to your thigh, he says, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I really didn’t think I’d feel this way right now.”

“God, please don’t apologize.” You might laugh if it weren’t so damn serious. As it is, you just climb into bed in earnest, kicking your shoes off and tucking yourself under the covers with him, still fully clothed. “I was scared this was about _me_ , babe. But Mike…” Mike, whom he almost never talks about without a drink in him, even now. “I get why you didn’t tell me.” Softer, as you curl yourself around him: “I’m glad you told me now, though.”

Llewyn exhales shakily. Maybe a laugh? Almost? “Never about you, sweetheart. You’re exactly what I needed today.”

“Then you’ve got me,” you whisper. “Anything you want, I’m here.”

He swallows and blinks at you. “Just want you to hold me, babe. Please.”

You take in a long, slow breath, and you nod.

Llewyn buries his face in your neck, and the two of you exhale almost as one.


End file.
